


Going Up

by plethoriall



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 03:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20594234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plethoriall/pseuds/plethoriall
Summary: “Why would you come here for your heat?”“It's a flash heat. Obviously I wouldn't have come here if I knew this would happen.” It sounds like he's gritting his teeth. Flash heats are short and unpredictable, and Claude usually wouldn't chirp an omega for getting one. But this is Sid, and Claude isn't perfect.





	Going Up

Of all the stupid things the NHL requires him to do, the All-Star game has to rank in the top five. In the middle of the season he’s already running on near-empty, and what could potentially have been a much needed rest will instead involve the risk of unnecessary injury for PR. It’s no wonder most of the players can't hide their apathy during the event. He doesn’t have high hopes for the weekend, but he does have a plan for coping with it.

He'd flown in at two that afternoon, and couldn't pass the time on the plane sleeping – the kid kicking his seat from behind every time his mother's head was turned had ensured it. He'd received his key card, tossed his bag into his room, and headed down to the bar. Given the nature of the event, his usual policy of staying sober the day before games was off the table. He wanted to get buzzed, head upstairs, and fall into dreamless sleep.

There was always something comforting to him about sitting in a hotel bar; most people were traveling through, no one interested in bothering anyone else but taking comfort in not being alone. That wasn't the case for this evening, as the bar filled with increasingly vocal hockey players and a surprising number of fans. He's downed a couple of jack and cokes before deciding that if the goal is to take the edge off, signing autographs and having drunken hockey players stagger into him is having the opposite effect. Being stuck between Stamkos and Tavares having a loud conversation over his head is the last straw. He pushes some notes toward the bartender and heads back toward the lobby. There's always the room minibar.

The lobby has filled up in the time he’s been drinking, to the point he can barely see the elevators for the human tsunami. _Fuck this_, he thinks. He knows the hotel well enough to duck left around the crowd, and along the corridor toward the back of the building. He'll grab an elevator there or resort to the stairs.

He mentally high-fives himself when his hopes pay off – the elevators at the back of the hotel are deserted, and it only takes a few seconds of waiting before one arrives. When the doors open, his elation disappears.

There's a pink tinge to his cheeks. Despite being the same height and Crosby having weight on him, he seems smaller than usual, somehow. Claude grimaces as the word _delicate_ comes to mind. It’s not a word he’d ever choose to describe Crosby.

“Giroux.”

“Crospee,” Claude replies as he hit his floor number. It's childish, but Crosby doesn't seem to notice it anyway. His eyes are glassy and he has the distinct aura of someone whose attention is elsewhere; perhaps not the most unexpected thing given the gym attire and that he's obviously heading up from the hotel's gym in the basement. It's no surprise when they spend the next few moments staring at the elevator doors in silence.

Right until the elevator lurches to a stop.

“Okay,” Claude says slowly. Sid inhales deeply beside him. The lights are still on and the selected floor buttons are illuminated, so Claude takes some comfort in the fact that there's no power outage or program reset. That comfort isn't worth much, considering it doesn’t change the fact they’re stationary with no apparent cause for the interruption.

Claude sees no point in wasting time and hits the emergency call button. He glances over at Sid as he waits for a response - he has a light sheen of sweat from his workout, and the same vacant expression from earlier. He even still has his hands jammed into his pockets. If it wasn't for the increased breathing pattern, Claude might have guessed that he was unaffected by the situation.

With no response from the emergency call, he tries holding it down for a minute. When that garners no reaction, he feels the first tingles of panic creeping up his spine. Sid chooses that moment to speak up.

“It was going really slow before too.” The tingles of panic take on an irritated edge.

“You're telling me that you knew something was wrong with the elevator and you continued riding it. Fantastic.”

“I wasn't thinking,” he mumbles.

“Well do you at least have your cell phone? Call Malkin and get him to high-stick the doors open.”

“It's in my bag.”

“And where's your bag?” Claude says slowly, as if speaking to a child.

Sid hesitates. “In a locker.”

“So you're still not thinking.”

“Where's _your_ phone?” Sid snaps back.

“Charging in my room.” Sid looks for a moment like he's trying to think of another chirp, but thankfully for them both, he settles for rolling his eyes. The Crosby classic.

-

Things don't get better over the next hour.

Claude glances up when he hears Sid take several breaths in quick succession. He isn't completely shocked to see him panicking over the situation – this delay has probably thrown off at least fifteen of his superstitions for his routine. He _is_ surprised it's taken this long.

“Hey, calm down. They'll get us out soon.”

-

They didn't.

They're both slumped down to sit on the floor of the elevator, pointedly ignoring each other. Just because they're stuck together doesn't mean they had to make the situation worse by interacting. Claude has counted the ceiling tiles and identified the areas in which the cleaning staff could improve. He’s bored out of his mind, but every time he manages to lose himself into his thoughts he’s lured back to the elevator by an enticing smell. Only on the third instance he notices it, does he realize where it's coming from.

He wriggles his nose like he's trying to shake off the scent. It isn't what he would have expected for Crosby – maybe something acidic like batteries, or boring like paper. Instead he smells a rich chocolate and burning wood. Claude is reminded of pushing himself close to a fireplace – an image further aided by the heat radiating off of Crosby. His eyes widen as he swivels to look at the other man.

“Holy shit. You're going into heat.”

Crosby's face heads further into pink territory, and confirms what his nose already knew. Claude is momentarily full of glee at his embarrassment, before he plummets back to reality of their current circumstance. For all their rivalry, the fact he is an alpha and Crosby is an omega has barely played a part, except for creative signs he'd spot at the Wells Fargo Center and some locker room trash talk. Now he's face-to-face with Crosby's biology with no option to look away. A bristle of irritation peaks at Claude's shoulders.

“Why would you come here for your heat?”

“It's a flash heat. Obviously I wouldn't have come here if I knew this would happen.” It sounds like he's gritting his teeth. Flash heats are short and unpredictable, and Claude usually wouldn't chirp an omega for getting one. But this is Sid, and Claude isn't perfect.

“So what are you gonna do? Spend the entire event bouncing on Malkin's knot?”

“Fuck you.” His eyes are wild and he's already begun to sweat. He's never looked this animalistic. Claude tries not to notice that his lips look even more pink and puffy than usual, and that the gym shorts do nothing to hide the fact he has an erection.

Sid doesn't seem to be in the mood to talk after that, and time passes slowly. The further along he gets into his heat, the more his usual barriers seem to drop - Claude can see him shifting through the corners of his eyes, and he digs his fingernails into his palm, trying to anchor his mind on the pain. He can tell the point-of-no-return is approaching for Sid's heat, dread filling his stomach along with another feeling he doesn't want to think about. He hums to block out the quiet sound of whimpering happening with increasing frequency. His body is reacting exactly as it was designed to, but that doesn't stop him from pulling his legs up to hide his groin from Sid's view.

Sid lets out a louder whimper that can’t be mistaken for anything other than _omega in heat_.

Claude snaps, pushing himself to his feet and hammering on the emergency button again. There always seems to be a way out of elevators in action movies – usually through the roof with considerable gymnastics. He glances between Crosby and the ceiling a few times, but it’s too high, and he’s seen too many horror movies. There’s no way out.

“You never want to come to this thing anyway, now you show up like this, and I'm _trapped_ in here with you, fucking _christ_.” He's ranting, but he can't stop himself. This situation is like something straight out of _Saw_ – a torture mechanism constructed specifically for him.

A hoarse whisper catches his attention.

“Please.”

_Fuck_.

“Don't do this, Sid, please don't do this,” Claude hisses. He's the one that has to be level-headed, but he can feel Sid's heat wearing away at his resolve, the smell of his slick acting like a shot of vodka and increasing by the second. If he starts _begging_ on top of that, there's no way Claude is going to keep his grip on how fucked up the situation is.

Another soft, frustrated whimper reaches his ears to underline _need _emanating from the omega. Claude is dismayed to feel himself projecting _want _back.

“This can't be happening.”

It isn't that Claude doesn't on some level desire Sid – in his darkest moments, and particularly after a defeat to the Penguins, he had entertained the idea of having him laid out, submissive to Claude's every desire and need. Begging had played a central part. Nobody can be held accountable for their fantasies - the problem is that if the choice was between having Crosby know about those fantasies and moving to North Korea, he'd be on the next plane.

Now his biology is betraying him, and he doesn't even have the clear excuse Sid does. Omega heat pheromones are powerful, but not nearly as effective on alphas that don't already have an interest in the heating omega. The level of interest he's radiating back to Sid would make his prior thoughts obvious. He slumps back against the elevator wall and allows himself to sink down next to Sid. There's no point fighting it, and accepting the situation grants him some liberties.

He takes a few deep inhales of the stifling pheromones Sid's conjuring up, feeling the warmth and comfort of it – his anxiety begins to fade away. Sid's scent has started smelling sweeter as he heads deeper into heat, and looking at him now feels like how Marchand must feel looking at another player's exposed face. He wants to taste.

He knows that soon there will be no sweetness, no tenderness, just animalistic tearing at each other – the result of thousands of years of breeding hard-coded into their DNA. It's almost beautiful to just let his instincts take over.

He turns to the other man, taking in his heavy-lidded eyes, the reddened lips. For as much as he hates the man when they’re on the ice, he can’t deny his attraction. He reaches out his hand to gently touch Sid's jaw, his thumb resting at the corner of his lips. The whimper Sid gives in response provides him the courage to surge forward, press their lips together. Sid's scent intensifies, like he's entering the third period down two-nothing. Any intent to start out gentle is brushed aside, his own desire demands him to deepen the kiss, invade Sid's mouth with his tongue and push him to submit. Sid opens easily to him, their mouths vibrating as Sid moans into the kiss.

He has Sid pushed back against the elevator wall, his hands creeping beneath his t-shirt when mechanical whirring fills the elevator and it shifts into motion. Claude scrambles to his feet, his heart racing as he watches the floor numbers drift by. He's feverish with the knowledge that the elevator problem is resolving, but a new, far worse one is ahead. Being a heating omega in public is dangerous, and it will be Claude's responsibility to get Sid somewhere safe. Sid seems to now be so far into it that he's making no move to stand up. The loud ping as the doors open sends a jolt through them both.

“Let's go,” Claude grabs Sid by the elbow, pulling him up and out of the elevator. It's a testament to the effect of omega pheromones that he is suddenly able to effortlessly lift a two hundred pound hockey player.

A quick glance up and down the corridor and they're hastening toward his room. The hairs on the back of his neck are raised, fully aware of just how much any alpha in the nearby vicinity will be able to smell Sid's heat. This has to be fast. Thankfully the keycard lights green on the first attempt, and he locks the door behind them.

He only gets a moment to let out a sigh of relief before Sid is up against him. For having been incoherent moments ago, he seems target fixated on resuming right where they left off in the elevator, more forceful than before. Claude pushes back to pin Sid against the wall, nipping at his bottom lip just enough to remind him to play nice. He grips one hand to the back of Sid’s neck, deepening the kiss, while the other explores down his lower back. Sid kisses back viciously, more teeth and desperation as he palms at the front of Claude’s jeans. Claude groans and tightens his hand on Sid’s neck, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth down to Sid’s collar bone and suck a purple mark to the surface. Sid whimpers as Claude’s hand on his lower back travels below the waistband of his shorts, a finger trailing between his two cheeks just to rest on his slickened hole. Sid pushes him away, and for just a second Claude thinks he fucked up.

Claude stands frozen, watching as Sid pulls his t-shirt and gym shorts off with shaking hands, revealing surprisingly smooth skin he can't wait to suck, bite, mark, _take_. When Sid crawls onto the bed, pushing his face down into the pillows and his ass into the air, presenting for him, he snaps out of his trance. He's thankful Sid has his face pushed into the pillows so he can't see him almost trip in his effort to get his jeans off faster. He grimaces at how eagerly his erection bounces up when freed – then again, how often does he have his fantasies come to life?

Claude knees his way onto the bed behind Sid, running his hands over his strong thighs and hips. He takes a moment to revel in the sight before him.

Sid’s hole is pink and covered in slick, demanding the attention that Claude is all too eager to give it. Claude runs his fingers up along the crease of his ass, through the slick that has migrated there and then caressing over the mounds above, grinning when he feels the shudder response. He might be fighting an uphill battle to keep control of himself long enough to prep Sid, but the teasing is worth it. He can’t resist getting closer, letting his tongue dart out to taste, forcing a loud moan from Sid. A couple of slow licks over his hole has him trembling, and if Sid wasn’t already in desperation, he’d happily plant his tongue in there and reduce him to tears.

“You're so wet for me, Cros,” Claude whispers, earning another low moan from Sid. He lets his fingers travel back down to his hole, caressing gently around it before poking in with just a fingertip. He leans forward to gently nip his teeth at Sid's ear, the first bite of many, if he gets his way. His other hand migrates to Sid’s balls, caressing them as more of a tease than anything else.

“Please,” Sid whines, and Claude feels an almost painful surge of arousal to his groin. He pushes his finger in with a slow slide, trying not to think how good the wet tightness will soon feel around his cock. He twists and bends his finger, admiring how responsive the other man is to his every move. He pushes in with another, spreading them. It isn't strictly needed – Sid is so slick and has more than likely been ready for him for the last hour. Still, Crosby isn't someone he’s going to take risks with. When he's worked his way up to three and Sid is fucking himself back onto them with reckless abandon, Claude is biting his lip and can't find it in himself to delay any longer. He pulls his fingers out, triggering a soft whimper from Sid.

“Ready?” he grunts, his voice an octave lower than usual.

“Fuck me,” Sid breathes.

Claude takes his cock in hand and guides himself to Sid's hole. Sid inhales sharply and hunches his back a little as he begins to sink in, the head slipping past his tight rim and further in a smooth slide. Claude bites his lip as he bottoms out, trying to hold still long enough to judge when Sid has adjusted. Once Sid arches his back again, he slowly pulls out until just the head remains inside. He grasps one ass cheek and lets his thumb caress Sid's rim, feeling the stretch. When Sid is only making low noises of encouragement, he sets up a rhythm.

He gets lost in the wet, warm glide of penetration, the feel of his fingertips in a death-grip on Sid's hips, creating bruises while Sid grabs at the bedsheets. It’s just the two of them, reading each other, anticipating the next play. The scent of heat hangs low in the air, urging him to go harder.

Sid is punching out a soft _uh_ on each thrust, and Claude chases getting him to make more of those sounds, to lose any remnants of control. He intertwines his fingers with the other man's hair, pulling just enough to display dominance without causing pain. He keeps his eyes away from looking at his dick pushing in and out of Sid's stretched, wet hole – he isn't sure how long the heat will last and he doesn't want to blow his first load too quick. His hand trails up and under from Sid’s hip, cupping his palm just over Sid’s cock to apply the smallest amount of pressure. Sid whines and bucks back onto him harder, trying to increase the contact.

He can feel his knot growing steadily near the base of his cock, catching on Sid's rim, finally getting big enough that he starts grinding his hips with the little maneuvering his knot allows him.

“Claude, _please_.”

Claude stops his teasing and grabs ahold of Sid’s cock, spreading the precome that’s formed there over his palm and jerking him off roughly. He leans down to bite Sid’s shoulder and then it only takes a few strokes to tip him over the edge, and he’s clamping down on Claude in a disjointed rhythm, letting out incoherent sounds.

Claude feels like he's going to pass out from holding his breath as his own orgasm approaches – it just keeps building until he feels like he's going to implode. When it finally hits, it’s like an out of body experience as he gasps through it - he manages another couple of thrusts as he shoots his load into Sid, otherwise clinging to his hips so hard he must be leaving bruises in the shape of his fingers. Sid's arms give out underneath him and the two flatten heavily onto the sheets.

Claude tries to get his breath back while they wait on the knot – the next wave of heat will probably be a while off, and until then Sid is radiating _content_, eyes half-closed with his arms wrapped around the pillow. Claude's fingers sweep gently up his sides, and over his shoulders, occasionally planting a kiss at the nape of his neck near his bite mark. It's gentler than he ever could have imagined being, and he can't resist pushing himself close to scent him. Combined with how many times they'll have to mate to get through the heat, others will know Crosby is _his_ for weeks. He can worry about how pleased that makes him later.

The second time, Claude fucks him over the desk, one hand on his hip and one on the shoulder, pulling him back onto his cock. The slapping sound of skin on skin and the wetness of slick feels louder away from the bed, but it's nothing compared to the way Sid vocalizes his enjoyment on every thrust. Part of him loves the idea of everyone on the floor knowing just how much pleasure Sid is getting, what a good alpha Claude is for him, to the point he can't stop the noises coming out of his mouth.

“Like that. Fucking take it, Cros.”

“Harder, oh _fuck._”

He knot is expanding as his need to come builds, and any thought of trying to stave it off disappears when Sid pulses rhythmically around his cock in the telltale way that signals an orgasm. He's surprised to hear Sid so quiet through it – he glances up and sees him biting his own arm to quiet himself, cheeks bright red and eyes scrunched shut. The sight of it pushes him over the edge.

They go through two more rounds as Claude marvels at how submissive, how malleable Crosby becomes in heat. He lets him pull his hair, smack his ass, put him into any position he wants, and makes the most beautiful noises all the way through. Despite both of them nearing exhaustion, he's somewhat disappointed when he feels Sid's heat seep away.

Being knotted together with the heat broken is infinitely more awkward than the previous knots. Claude is thankful they'd made their way back onto the bed for the final one, so he can just lazily lay his full weight on Sid's back and try to catch his breath. He can feel Sid shifting against him and wonders how beaten up his hole must feel. Once they catch their breath, he decides it's time to lighten the mood.

“So, how's your season going?”

“God, don't,” Sid grimaces, dropping his face into a pillow. Claude laughs, causing a gasp from Sid as his knot flexes inside him in response. Claude is sure that now his heat is fading away, all the aches and sensitivity of rough sex are sneaking up on him. His own cock and thighs are throbbing from the evening's effort. His stamina isn’t what it once was.

When his knot goes soft enough to slip free, Sid’s reddened hole is leaking come and slick down his thighs. Sid shifts and groans in what Claude can only assume is embarrassment. Despite his exhaustion, Claude feels a deep-seated content knowing the sight before him is his doing. He heads to the bathroom to dampen a hand towel, returning to the bedroom to begin the arduous process of cleaning them both up. Omega slick is notoriously difficult to remove, especially considering Sid would continue leaking for the next few hours, but he can at least get the worst off. Sid has the most beautiful fucked-out calmness to him, something Claude has never seen on him before. It makes him more gentle swiping the hand towel over his slick dampened thighs than he would have if media ready Sid had snapped right back into place post heat.

“_Câlice_, they should call you Slickney Crosby,” he teases.

“I hate you so much.” But his voice is still calm, nearly affectionate.

His alpha instinct is telling him to stay close to Sid's side, and he cringes a little thinking of why that is. The league mandates birth control for omega players during season, but the primal part of his brain still feels the need to protect the carrier of his hypothetical offspring. Most of the time he would override that urge, but if Sid isn't about to flee the room, he figures he may as well indulge it.

He tosses the cloth in the general direction of the bathroom before laying back down by Sid. He grabs the remote to the TV and begins trying to find something decent to watch, a diversion from things potentially getting awkward.

“Tell me you like Deadliest Catch.”

“I'll watch it.” Sid shrugs and turns over onto his back beside him with only a slight frown as his weight shifts onto his butt. Claude wonders if things will still get awkward with them laying naked together, Sid’s body covered in the bites and bruises he put there, but it seems they're riding the post-sex high enough to be comfortable. Plus, the word heat isn't for nothing – the room is sweltering and the thought of getting dressed is quickly rejected.

Ten minutes into watching reruns of the perils of fishing off the Alaskan coast, they both pass out.

-

“I don't really want to use your toothbrush.”

Claude rolls his eyes. “We shared a lot more than saliva last night, I think you can get over it.”

They had both jolted awake in the morning to the TV blaring a wake-up alarm that Claude was certain he hadn't set – he guessed the NHL didn't trust the players to follow the day's agenda themselves. His head is pounding – the result of an evening of too much fucking and not enough water. He had felt an inkling of relief to see Sid hadn't quietly slipped out in the night; it was best to get the awkwardness over in the morning rather than delay it until they were in a locker room full of other players.

Sid glares, but accepts the toothbrush. They take turns in the shower to get the previous night’s events washed away, complete with Sid complaining about his choice of bodywash. Claude is pleased to note no amount of scrubbing has shifted his scent off of Crosby.

“Can I borrow some clothes?” Sid says, grimacing as he pokes his toe against his gym shorts laying on the floor. They look damp to the eye, and Claude wonders if he'll dare use the hotel's laundry facilities or just throw them away. The dry-cleaning facilities would definitely have seen worse, but Sid strikes him as exactly the kind of person who would be too ashamed of his biology to allow anyone else to see it.

“Sure. I don't know what will fit you, though.” Claude gestures toward the suitcase. Sid begins rifling through, and is soon pulling on a pair of sweatpants, sadly not the ones with the Flyers logo, but they’re gratifyingly snug around the ass. Claude feels a twinge of excitement upon noticing that Sid isn’t borrowing underwear, but quickly squashes that feeling – heat is one thing, the cold light of day is another. He can’t rule out angling for a repeat non-heat performance sometime this weekend, but it won’t be right now. Especially when Crosby is shoving his feet into his shoes like he’s escaping a fire.

“We've got like an hour allocated for breakfast, there's no rush.”

“Easy for you to say. I need to grab my gym bag and get my own clothes.”

“I don't know, you look kinda cute wearing my clothes.” It’s worth saying just for the irritated look Sid gives him. They continue getting ready in silence, trying to look less like two people who spent a good portion of the night fucking like animals.

“Hey.”

Claude looks up from tying his shoelaces. Sid is looking sheepishly back down at him, with the aura of someone so socially awkward that extensive media training still couldn’t tame it.

“Thank you. For you know.”

“Any time.” Claude can’t help smiling; Crosby is essentially thanking him for fucking him. It might be the best day of his life.

No sooner than they step into the corridor, do they come face-to-face with a disturbed looking Bergeron heading toward the elevator.

“Hey Bergy.”

“Those walls are paper thin,” he says flatly.

Sid's cheeks instantly turn bright red and Claude tries to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching, still so proud of the noises he'd produced out of Sid he can’t find it in himself to be ashamed. Bergeron shakes his head and seems no further inclined to discuss the matter, brushing past them.

Sid glances at Claude as if challenging him to say something, but Claude shrugs and stays silent. No use in pushing the man to a meltdown this early in the day. Besides, now he has the whole event to subtly fuck with him.

Maybe this weekend would be fun after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Mildly dubious consent tag is precautionary - the acts between the two are consensual, but heat is definitely a big factor
> 
> Pretty rusty in my writing, but hopefully you enjoyed. Come yell at me on tumblr under plethoriall


End file.
